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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907035">softly, while the world holds its breath</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiley/pseuds/alexiley'>alexiley</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Touch-Starved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:01:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25907035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiley/pseuds/alexiley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Martin wakes to cold, cold air.<br/>He shivers, tries to pull the blankets closer around him, but they’re cold too. He rolls onto his side, finds himself reaching out for someone, someone who should be sleeping beside him.<br/>The bed is empty and cold. Just like the sheets, just like the air, just like Martin’s skin.<em></em></em><br/> <br/>Or in which Jon and Martin escape the Institute, and Martin has another brush with the Lonely.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>439</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>softly, while the world holds its breath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Martin feels exhaustion pull at his edges, his fingertips, as they leave London behind. Jon is quiet at the wheel, focused, a bit unsure maybe but determined too, determined to get as far from the Institute as possible. He’s just as visibly tired as Martin is—although maybe he’s always looked that fragile, long, thin fingers trembling slightly where they grip hard—but he looks much more solid than Martin has felt in a while, and he’s certainly glad at least one of them is substantial. Martin notices distantly that he is still faded at all his sides, a lingering fog faintly grasping him. But there is </span>
  <em>
    <span>feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his body for the first time in...well, months he guesses, and with the low droning of the road beneath them and the fact that Jon is </span>
  <em>
    <span>there </span>
  </em>
  <span>beside him, it’s almost peaceful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin isn’t sure how long they’ve been driving or how far they’ve gotten when Jon finally seems to relax, taking a long, deep breath and slumping back into his seat. Martin feels like he should say something, thank Jon profusely, finally let slip how utterly in love he is. But he finds he can’t get the words out, so instead, he reaches out and brushes his not-quite-there fingertips along the back of one of Jon’s hands. Jon starts a bit, as if he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone in the car, before smiling very, very softly and taking Martin’s hand in his. Martin’s hand is solid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Martin says; it’s a small word, but in the silence of the car with the Institute distant behind them, it feels far larger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Martin,” Jon smiles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They lapse into silence again, but it’s a good kind of silence, warm. Martin doesn’t let go of Jon’s hand, and Jon doesn’t let go of his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin’s gaze drifts, and he notices there is no CD player in Jon’s car, only an old tape deck, and isn’t that just painfully fitting. He admits to finding it a little bit endearing, though, thinking of Jon listening to old cassette tapes while he drives.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon must notice where he’s looking. “There should still be a couple of good ones in the compartment if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin laughs softly, “Feels a little too close to home though, doesn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon nods stiffly. “Quite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They opt for the radio instead, and Martin cycles through stations until he finds one clear enough of static and interference to make out. He doesn’t recognize the song that plays—a lilting, melancholy tune—but Jon must because he starts to hum along softly. Martin watches, a bit in awe, as the barely-there humming morphs into singing. Jon is </span>
  <em>
    <span>singing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and his voice is beautiful, and Martin is so, so in love, but doesn’t dare utter a word, doesn’t dare </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe</span>
  </em>
  <span> for fear of missing a single lilt of Jon’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The song’s over before he knows it, and almost as soon as the melody fades out, Jon pales, suddenly looking sick to his stomach, and confesses with halting honesty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...I’ve never heard that song before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air in the car grows quiet. Jon stares straight ahead, worrying at his lip, while Martin glares a bit accusingly at the sputtering radio before turning to Jon. He squeezes Jon’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could think of worse ways to use evil Wikipedia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This pulls a small, trembling smile from Jon who shakes his head and scoffs under his breath something that sounds like, “‘Evil Wikipedia’. Ridiculous.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin grins despite himself.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin isn’t sure what he was expecting when Basira told them about Daisy’s safe house up in nowhere, Scotland—maybe a grim, unwelcoming cabin suited to your odd bloodstain and the like—but he’s sure it wasn’t a quaint little cottage, that looks like it had been yanked out of some fairy tale complete with thriving wildflowers and pastures of ridiculously fluffy highland cows. Yeah, most definitely not what he’d had in mind at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure this is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daisy’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> safe house?” he asks, with a raised eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon nods, mouth slightly agape. “Positive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods slowly, still attempting to take in the strange alternate reality he must have stepped into without noticing. “Well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Jon agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share a look and almost immediately erupt into laughter. Martin has no idea he had any humor left in him, but it fills his body with warmth nonetheless. And God, is it good to hear Jon laugh, really laugh, not some hardly noticeable scoff born of skepticism, or some derisive chuckle paired with dark, narrowed eyes. It’s painfully real, filled with the relief of being close to safe for the first time in years, and Martin realizes sadly that he isn’t sure he’s ever heard Jon’s laugh before now. He resolves himself to find any way to make him do so again because he, of all people, deserves to be able to laugh, to be able to be happy despite the hardship, despite all the scars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the laughter finally subsides, Martin follows Jon to the front door, bags in hand, and he unlocks it with the key Basira pressed into their hands before telling them to get the fuck out while they still could. The door squeaks as it’s pushed open, and Martin winces before taking in the inside of the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s dim and dusty, which isn’t surprising considering it hasn’t been in use for three years at least, but also...faintly cozy? It’s open, with a small kitchen to their immediate left, a table set into the far wall beneath a window facing out on hilly green and bright flowers. On the other side of the room, there is a single bookshelf lined with old paperbacks varying in size and an old, worn-in couch sitting opposite of—and Martin feels a thrill of excitement at this—a fireplace, also dusty but that hardly matters to him. He always wanted a fireplace, thought it a very charming concept, though he could never actually afford one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home sweet home,” Jon murmurs beside him, and Martin is surprised to turn and find him looking, not at the rest of the room, but up at </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. His head is tilted slightly to the side with a gentle upturned curve to his lips as if he’s lost in thought; his eyes are warm but Martin feels like they’re burning into him with something nearing too close to affection, and it’s too much, too much. He quickly looks away, nods absentmindedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You reckon Daisy has any tea hidden away somewhere?” he manages. Old habits, old conversations. Far safer than anything he might have seen in Jon’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon shrugs, the moment lost. Martin surprises himself by missing it. “Check under the sink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin does while Jon wanders off down an adjacent hallway. Martin is pleased to find a box of tea bags although he makes a note to be sure to buy more when they decide to venture down to the small village a mile or two away. It’s a strangely domestic thought, to have to buy groceries together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is jolted out of his small, private thoughts by Jon calling his name from the hallway. He quickly hoists himself to his feet and rushes to where Jon is standing in a doorway off of the hall, looking a bit wide-eyed, a bit flushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s—” Martin doesn’t finish, instead he stares into the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a large room, admittedly a bit empty. A window sits on the opposite wall, letting in the early evening sunlight. There’s a side table with a lamp and beside it is—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p><span>Of course. It makes sense, doesn’t it? It makes sense that there is only one bed pushed back against the wall considering Daisy is the only person who’s ever needed to sleep there. It makes </span><em><span>perfect</span></em> <em><span>logical</span></em> <em><span>sense</span></em><span> for there to be one bed, but none to account for how Martin can feel his cheeks getting hotter by the second. There’s a voice singing in his head about implications, implications, implications.</span></p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” is all he can get out in the end, sounding pressed for air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.” Jon is still holding onto his bag a bit tightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...I can take the couch if you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s gaze whips up to meet his. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin flushes. “I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or...anything. I know you...It’s really fine. I’ll just—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It won’t make me uncomfortable,” Jon says suddenly, head tilted in slight confusion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Martin’s turn to splutter out a strained “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin, it, it won’t…” Jon trails off, clearly trying very hard to articulate. “I really don’t mind. At all. But if you don’t want to, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Martin’s mouth is dry. “I’m...fine.” And then because he’s afraid of how honest he’s become. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, and now Jon’s looking at him. “Not at all, Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin swallows; his face must be bright red. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon nods. “Alright.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There isn’t much in the way of food in any of the cupboards, and Martin is confident anything left in the fridge might actually kill either of them if they tried to eat it. Thankfully, Jon had the foresight to raid the break room cupboards before they left the Institute, and they have a meager meal of stale biscuits and instant noodles and tea. It feels familiar, and Martin catches himself thinking wistfully of Tim and Sasha. Not for the first time either; he’s lost count of the many times the Lonely had liked to remind him of how alone he’d become. At the time, he was mostly numb to the Lonely’s derision; he isn’t numb to it anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sets his silverware down, appetite lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t seem to fare much better. The longer he sits in the chair beside Martin, the easier it is to see Jon’s body curving in on itself because of the exhaustion that came from pulling Martin out of the Lonely and from the hours of driving after that. The shadows under his eyes look more pronounced in the light of the setting sun, and Martin desperately aches to hold him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They clean up in silence and retreat to the bedroom in silence. Martin doesn’t think it’s purposeful; there are simply no words to be shared in the growing dark. Still, it’s a lonely place to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they lie down, they keep their distance, leaving space between them that Martin figures is out of courtesy to both of them. It’s still so new, and neither one wants to cross a line, but Martin can’t help but wish Jon would. Having Jon so close is only making the ache in his chest sharper, that gap making it all the more obvious how much he longs to reach out. But in the end, Jon’s breathing deepens before Martin can get up the nerve to take his hand, and Martin is left to stare at the ceiling until sleep finally comes for him too.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin wakes to cold, cold air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shivers, tries to pull the blankets closer around him, but they’re cold too. He rolls onto his side, finds himself reaching out for someone, someone who should be sleeping beside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bed is empty and cold. Just like the sheets, just like the air, just like Martin’s skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shivers again, gets out of bed. The floor is frigid to the touch, and he hisses as he leaves the bedroom. He’s looking for someone. He knows he’s looking for someone, someone who is missing. He doesn’t know who exactly. He can’t see their face the way he knows he should. Martin bites his lip. He knows he’s missing someone, so it stands to reason he should also know </span>
  <em>
    <span>who</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s missing, doesn’t it? He has to know who. Someone is not there. Someone who should be. Someone he can’t remember. Someone who means something to him. Someone, someone, some—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The kitchen is empty. The table is empty. The couch is empty. The fireplace is unlit, gray with dust and mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is alone. Alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a pressure building; he can feel it surging through his body. And he’s shaking now, a full-body shiver as the panic starts to clamber up his throat. He rushes to the door to the outside. He’s alone and missing someone. Maybe outside. Maybe outside will be where he’ll find them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he pulls the door open, he is greeted by gray, gray, gray drifting closer and closer to the door. It’s fog, and Martin feels a sob tear itself out of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no, no, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuts the door, locks it, retreats...where? Where can he go that it won’t reach him? Away, just away. He knows distance won’t make it leave. God, he knows with stabbing familiarity. It makes it stronger. Distance, separation, detachment, isolation, they all make it strong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s so cold there as the fog seeps below the door, through the cracks in the windows. It’s so, so cold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin crouches on the floor of the kitchen, holding his knees to his chest, the panic, the despair, the grief all pooling around him until he can’t breathe. Somehow it’s more painful than he remembered, and he supposes it’s because he was so sure he had gotten away, that he was finally safe. It was foolish to think so of course because it’s with terrible finality that he now realizes that it was always there, had always been there, a gaping maw ready to welcome him back with open arms and remind him once again that</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone is missing, but in the growing mist Martin can barely grasp the concept of someone being there, </span>
  <em>
    <span>needing</span>
  </em>
  <span> him in the first place. And why would he ever want to leave to find out? Here is where he </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserves</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be, where he belongs. It’s cold. It’s numb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s Lonely.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon Knows something is wrong before he’s even fully awake. The place beside him where Martin had been only hours before is vacant. Around him the air is chilled and smells of the sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon is out of bed in seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin!” His voice is shaky with nerves and anger as he runs down the hall. It can’t happen again; he won’t let it happen again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds Martin on the kitchen floor, curled around himself. Jon can see the drawers behind him </span>
  <em>
    <span>through</span>
  </em>
  <span> his body, can see fog clinging to his hair, to his clothes. Something small and vulnerable inside him breaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” he says again, softer now, as he slips to the floor beside the other man. “Martin, listen to me. Listen. This is the Lonely. Come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin looks up slowly as if barely registering Jon’s presence; his eyes are empty and gray like swirling fog. “Jon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon manages a small smile that doesn’t keep his voice from shaking. “Yes, Martin, it’s me. I’m right here. Come back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please come back to me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shakes his head, mist curling further around his faded silhouette. “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s tiny smile falters. “Martin?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t answer, instead peering off into someplace Jon can’t quite see. “Why do you care so much, Jon? Why do you care about me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way he says it isn’t the way a question should sound; it feels like a fact, a lie Martin’s told himself or, more likely,</span>
  <em>
    <span> has been told</span>
  </em>
  <span> long enough that it’s become adjacent to truth, as real a thing as the Lonely can offer.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Martin.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon reaches for Martin’s hand but his fingers fall right through where it should be. “Because I...I love you, Martin. I care because </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Jon isn’t sure when he started crying but his voice shakes and shakes and he pours everything he has in those three words. Is this really the first time he’s said them?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Martin asks again, voice hollow. “I don’t deserve it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin,” his voice is steely and brimming with emotion. “you deserve every good thing in this world and more.” And he means it. He aches with how much he means it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin shakes his head again. “I don’t though. I don’t matter. Not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looks at him with all the emotion he can muster. “You matter to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m alone, Jon, that’s how it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m right here with you, Martin. I’m here and I’m not leaving you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are traces of the Beholding in Jon’s words, seeping in through the cracks, mixing with his tears. Unlike what the Lonely boasts as truth, these words are sincere, they are honest. Because with every reply, there is that fear of losing Martin again; he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> lose him again and that love-founded desperation </span>
  <em>
    <span>makes</span>
  </em>
  <span> the words true. They are his own, and they are real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must take hours of these small words before Jon starts to see color in Martin’s cheeks again. Martin’s hand becomes firmer, more solid beneath Jon’s own until he can grasp it tightly and hold it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to Martin’s knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin watches him with eyes brimming with tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is a tremble in his voice that hadn’t been there the first time he’d said that same greeting only hours previous. Jon smiles tearily at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Martin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin starts to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon immediately pulls him to his chest in a trembling embrace, running his shaking hands up and down Martin’s back and through the curls of his hair, dispelling the last of the fog while Martin clings and clings and clings, with his head over Jon’s heart and maybe even holds him hard enough to leave bruises all along Jon’s ribs. Jon hardly minds. If anything, he just pulls Martin closer, feels Martin’s uneven breathing and warm tears against his collar bone. He buries his face in Martin’s hair, pressing soft kisses there that taste salty with his own tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry, Martin. I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Were it a few years ago, Martin would go out of his way to assure Jon it’s alright, that it’s okay, but they both know that that is a lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hold each other until dawn breaks and sunlight reaches gently through the kitchen window like a promise.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon makes tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a strange contrast to what Martin’s used to. He’s used to being the one bustling around the kitchen, putting the kettle on, getting out the mugs; what he isn’t used to is sitting quietly and listening while someone does those things for him. Jon hums while the water boils, something vaguely familiar. It’s lovely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon helped him start a fire, only moments ago, with a hand against the small of his back all the while. It felt warmer than the flames that sputtered to life and roar steadily in front of him now. It felt safe.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s what Jon said, not once but twice. Twice while Martin was so far away it was difficult to tell if he just imagined it, if he so desperately wanted to hear those three words that he conjured them up all on his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here you are.” Jon presses a warm mug of tea into Martin’s hand before joining him on the couch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin watches him take a sip of his tea and grimace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too hot?” he smiles a bit fondly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon shakes his head. “Bitter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin nods, takes a sip, sets it aside, tries to get words out, fails, tries again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon notices, of course, he always notices, with a line of concern drawn between his brows that Martin so hopelessly wants to kiss away. “Martin, what is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin takes a breath. When he opens his mouth, he will tell Jon first and foremostly thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. He will say it as many times as he can, and he will try not to cry again because he’s already cried enough today. He will tell him how much he’s missed him. How often he’d thought about him. In his head, it all sounds like poetry. He can do poetry. Martin steels himself, opens his mouth, and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I kiss you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not what he meant to say at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flushes to the roots of his hair. “Shit, Jon, sorry. I...that’s not—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin stops breathing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s watching him with a soft, attentive expression on his face, and he is very, very close which shouldn’t come as as much of a shock as it does considering how small the couch is, but Martin’s heart is racing at the thought that if he reached out he would be able to brush Jon’s lips with his fingertips, hold Jon’s cheek in his hand. He wonders what’s there to stop him from doing just that. The answer is nothing, nothing at all. So he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon shivers at the contact, breathes out a small sigh that Martin is able to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he says again, a low whisper against Martin’s fingers. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin doesn’t think he realized how badly he’d wanted to kiss Jon until their lips meet, and Jon moans into his mouth. It’s a small, barely-there sigh but it pools warmth in the pit of Martin’s stomach. His hands are fisting in the fabric of Martin’s jumper, pressing into his waist, curling around his neck, carding through his hair, and Martin kisses him. He kisses him like the world could end tomorrow because it very well may. And Martin is so terrified of letting go of him for even a second.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s lips are gentle against his, warm and slightly chapped, but gentle. Martin’s fingers flutter over Jon’s face, unsure of where to settle, wanting to take in every harsh line and sharp edge. He draws his fingertips along Jon’s jaw, brushing gently against the jagged scar on his neck, earning a sharp intake of breath from Jon. Martin pulls away, searches Jon’s face for a moment before pressing his lips to the scar, oh so softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon shivers, takes Martin’s face in his hands, and smiles. “God, I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin freezes. Leaning back, he quickly takes in the mussed state of Jon’s hair, the deep flush of his lips. His eyes glow with so much warmth and Martin is struck not at all for the first time by just how beautiful he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You…” Martin trails off, his voice breaking toward the end. It’s different to hear those words now, when he’s present and listening, not numb and chilled to the bone in someplace far removed. A small traitorous part of him once again wonders if he imagined it somehow, but no, Martin knows he didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something warm slips down his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So much for trying not to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin?” Jon’s dazed smile falls away in an instant, replaced by deep concern. “God, Martin, I’m—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> apologize, Jonathan Sims,” Martin forces out alongside a tearful laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s brows furrow; it’s very cute. “But—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin kisses him again, effectively shutting him up. Jon hums softly against his mouth, hands already finding themselves cupping Martin’s jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Martin pulls away again, he stays close enough that their foreheads touch and when he speaks their lips brush like just another kiss.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Martin isn’t imagining the way Jon’s breath hitches at the words. And as soon as he finishes saying them, Martin is consumed with the need to say them again, and again. He presses a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth, to his cheek, to the tip of his nose, every kiss punctuated by a gentle “I love you”, small only in the sense that Martin whispers it against his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t wait to place another breathless kiss to Martin’s lips before drawing him tightly against his chest. Martin is reminded of their earlier embrace on the kitchen floor but finds this one is much different; here he is warm and unbelievably happy. He tells Jon this, with his face burrowed into the space between Jon’s neck and shoulder, leaving a tender kiss there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon laughs softly, warmly. “So am I, Martin. So am I.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And then they get a cat and live happily ever after because I say so, and Jonny Sims has no power here.</p><p>Thanks so much for reading! If you leave a comment, I will love you forever. Also I'm on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alexiley">Tumblr</a> so feel free to come say hi :))</p></blockquote></div></div>
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